


The Nameless

by penguinsledding



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Meetings, Getting Together, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguinsledding/pseuds/penguinsledding
Summary: Every family has its origin story.For the Riveras, it began on the Plaza.





	The Nameless

There was a new musician in the Plaza. 

Imelda Martínez thought he had a nice voice and a sloppy technique. He did all these throat-splitting gritos in the middle of his song, and it turned him hoarse. But there was an earnestness there, and he could at least carry a tune better than most street performers.

He stood at the center of the square, tall and goofy-looking, his thighs thinner than her arms. He claimed to have written all his own songs, though Imelda doubted it. As she watched, he danced until dust clouds rose around him. He was a good dancer, or if not good, then just bad enough to be charming. 

Imelda was aware of this sort of thing, being a bit of a musician herself. She loved music more than anything in the world, and she often snuck away from her Mamá to hear the mariachis play for the town. Someday, she thought she might sing on the Plaza herself. 

But for now, he was in her spot, and she was just a girl on her way back from the market. Her brothers Felipe and Óscar stood behind her, tugging at her hands.

“Mamá said to come right home,” Felipe said. 

“Shhh,” Imelda said. “I’m trying to listen.”

She seemed to be the only one listening, actually. Everyone else was hurrying to their next destination, keeping their eyes low. Imelda was surprised. He wasn't half as bad as the musicians who usually played here. 

“We’re not supposed to listen to him,” Óscar whispered. “Mamá says he is  un bastardo.”

Imelda perked up a bit at that. A bastard, now that was interesting. She had heard so much about bastards, but she'd never actually met one. He looked more normal than she’d expected, although now she understood that horrible nose. It was exactly as pointy as Mayor Solano’s. She’d heard the Mayor had another son, born out of wedlock, a boy who bore his features but not his name. Apparently, the boy lived outside of town with his Mamá, surviving on what little his asshole father sent them. She moved closer. 

“Imelda,” Felipe said. “We have to leave.”

“No,” she said. She looked at the musician more closely now. From what she could tell, he was actually a decent guitar player. And his lyrics were quite good, if he really had written them himself. “You run home. I’ll be there soon.”

“We’ll tell Mamá,” Óscar warned. Felipe nodded, and Imelda swore under her breath. Fucking tattletales.

“Fine,” she said. She pulled her hands from the boys’ grips and planted herself firmly in front of the musician. He realized he had an audience and grinned. Imelda kept her face impassive, but she figured an audience of one would always be better than none. 

The twins ran off, and the musician launched into his next song. If Imelda had thought he was showboating before, she was fooling herself. Somehow, he’d added even more complicated footwork to his routine. He threw in another grito, and Imelda shook her head. His voice was starting to sound like sandpaper. 

Still, she found herself tapping her foot. And though she didn't realize it, she had begun to smile. 

He finished the song with a spin. When he finally stood still, his hair was in his eyes, and he blew it away from his forehead. Imelda did not clap.

“Ay, another tough customer,” he said. But there was a spark in his eye. Compared to the rest of the Saint Cecilians, she must have been a dream. 

“Not a customer,” she said. “Una musica.”

“Ahhh,” he said. He beamed. “A fellow musician. So, how am I doing?”

“Alright,” she said.

“Alright?” He shook his head, but he still looked pleased. “Señorita, I’d like to see you do better.”

Imelda looked around. She could see people whispering already, and she winced. Her Mamá would be furious. Imelda wasn’t supposed to speak to strange men at all, let alone un bastardo. She often did things her mother would not approve of, but this battle just didn't seem worth fighting. She shook her head. 

“I can't,” she said. 

“Why not?” He was leaning in closer, smiling until she could see all his teeth. Imelda shrugged. 

“Singing for a stranger on the plaza? Mi Mamá would kill me.”

“Ahh, so you can't sing for me,” he said. “Then sing with me. What's your favorite duet?”

“Señor—”

“You don't even have to sing! Just tell me, what's your favorite song?”

Imelda sighed.

“La Llorona,” she said. 

“I know that one!” He strummed his guitar and began to sing. 

It was a good cover, actually, even though he clearly didn't know the song as well as he knew his own. He had to watch his hands on the guitar, and sometimes he made mistakes. But he still smiled as he sang. Now that he was focused, he wasn’t bothering to showboat. He let his voice carry the song, and Imelda realized that it could. He had a beautiful voice, actually. 

He was building up to the end, his guitar rising towards those last, soaring few lines. Imelda bit her lip. She had practiced this song so many times. She shook her head. Fuck it. 

“Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona,” Imelda sang. She wanted to hit herself as soon as she did it, but she couldn't stop. He beamed and hollered, his hand still strumming the guitar. She stepped closer to him, her voice rising clear and lovely over the music. “ No dejaré de quererte.”

“No dejaré de quererte,”  he echoed. He started dancing again, and Imelda tried to imitate his moves. They rocked together and took a few steps to the right, then to the left. He grinned, and gestured for her to spin. They both spun, and her voice grew breathy. She felt dizzy. The air between them suddenly seemed so much thinner. Around her, she could see what felt like a sea of stunned faces. They were nearing the end of the song, but Imelda’s stomach churned. Her voice broke.

“Stop, stop,” she said. His fingers paused on the guitar. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to push you—”

“No, it’s fine,” she said. As if any of this was about  _ him! _ She smiled, and the expression felt forced. “I must go home now.”

“Okay...” His voice trailed off, and Imelda turned sharply on her heel. The worn soles of her shoes slipped a bit on the dirt, and she wondered if she should change them. She knew a bit about shoes, too. She’d taught herself. 

When she got home, her Mamá had already heard what happened. Imelda sat in the kitchen, wincing as the house filled with shouts. It was only then, with Mamá’s scolding finger inches from her face, that she she realized she had forgotten to ask the musician’s name. 

* * *

She saw him playing a few times after that, but only when she was walking with her Mamá. Like the rest of the village residents, Mamá kept her head down when she passed el bastardo. The townspeople seemed to think he would disappear as long as they just refused to see him. It made Imelda furious. She did not defend the musician to her neighbors, but she at least did not look down.

Then one day, more than a week after their first meeting, Imelda was sent to Señora Hernandez’s boarding house to borrow flour for tortillas. Her sister Rosita was being courted by the baker’s son Francisco, and Papa had invited him to dinner without warning the family. Now they were all scrambling to prepare.

Imelda wished they did not have to go through these ridiculous steps to make Rosita look more marriageable, but she still took courtship seriously. Whoever Rosita chose to marry would change the rest of her life, and Imelda would never do anything to limit her sister’s choices.

When she arrived at Señora Hernandez’s doorstep, slightly out of breath, she saw a familiar figure walking out the front door. The musician jumped a little when he saw her.

“Hola,” he said. He tilted his head. “Good to see you.”

“I’m not here to see you,” Imelda said. She shook her head. “I just mean— I’m here for flour. I didn't even know you lived here.”

“I do,” he said. He pointed to a window near the back of the house. “That's my room.”

Imelda nodded and they stood in awkward silence for a moment. He cleared his throat.

“Would you like some help with the flour?”

“No,” she said. “I just need to speak with Señora Hernandez.”

“I’ll come with you!” He turned cheerfully on his heel and walked back through the boarding house doors. “You and Hernandez are the only people here who like me. Well, and maybe Ernesto.”

“How do you know I like you?” Imelda asked, stepping into the living room.

“Ay, you are cruel,” he said. They moved together into the kitchen, and Señora Hernandez turned around.

“Welcome back,” she said. She looked quizzically at the returned musician, then turned to Imelda. “Hola mija.”

“Hola, Señora,” Imelda said. “Mi madre sent me for flour.”

“No problem.” She reached for a massive sack against the wall of the kitchen. “I heard your sister is having Francisco over for dinner tonight.”

Imelda forced a smile. Señora Hernandez was a notorious gossip.

“He will be our family’s guest, sí,” she said. She wouldn't have anyone saying her sister was fast.

“You are older than Rosita,” Hernandez said. “When are you going to find a nice boy and settle down?”

Imelda felt herself turning red, but there was no way to stop it. Next to her, the musician flexed his fingers and looked suddenly aloof. She didn’t know how to feel about that at all, so she pushed it from her mind. She focused instead on answering Señora Hernandez.

“I am perfectly happy as I am,” she said. Señora Hernandez dumped the flour into a smaller bag.

“You say that now,” she said. “But wait until all that beauty fades. Then you will wish you had found a man when tu amiga Hernandez suggested it.”

Imelda picked up the little bag of flour. She was unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. 

“Thanks for the advice,” she said. “But for now, I must be going. Mi Mamá me espera.” 

The musician followed her out of the room. 

“You’ll have to forgive the Señora,” he said. “She can be a bit…” He trailed off. “Familiar.”

“Pah.” Imelda was walking fast down the lane, and he had to rush to keep up. 

“Ah, don’t be that way,” he said. She turned the corner, away from the boarding house, and he jogged alongside her. “She is just not as clever as you, you see.”

Imelda stopped in her tracks.

“Well, what’s your excuse?” she said.

“For what?”

“For being familiar.”

He shrugged. “I am much stupider than Señora Hernandez.”

He smiled at her, sheepish, but she shook her head. She crossed her arms, and he deflated.

“You're right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve been lonely, and— well, I wasn’t kidding when I said you're the only one who’s nice to me.”

Imelda softened. The boy did seem to be having a rough time, playing alone every day in that Plaza, living in a boarding house filled with other young men. He must miss his home. She held out a hand. 

“Well, then we should at least introduce ourselves,” she said, her voice still gruff. “I am Imelda Martínez.”

He took her hand and shook it. 

“Héctor,” he said. His palms were sweaty, but his eyes were bright again. “Although you knew that already, eh?”

Imelda tilted her head at him. They had seen each other before, obviously, but she had never heard his name. He didn't tell her, and no one in Saint Cecilia dared speak it. But then it dawned on her.

“The street kid,” she said. 

He grinned. 

When Imelda was young, she’d loved to run from her house and play out in the streets. She and sus hermanos would race and play the little games made up by children, like kick the can or tag.  One day, Imelda was fighting with Rosita, and Felipe and Óscar were playing by themselves, as they often did. Imelda was forced to entertain herself, and so she wandered far past her usual street and into the town center. 

She’d been trying to beat her own best running time when she nearly slammed into the boy. She noticed something different about him right away. He smelled a little, and though someone had clearly made an effort to clean him up, his clothes were still dirty and ragged. He was so skinny, Imelda thought she could see his bones. But when he saw her, he was eager to play. The two of them raced up and down the street, hooting and hollering. His name was Héctor, and he was funny for a boy. She shared her lunch with him that day, and he ate like he hadn't seen food in weeks. 

Her Mamá found them later in the afternoon, still playing, and she dragged Imelda home. She got a tongue-lashing just for talking to the boy, and she was warned never to play with him. Her Mamá should not have worried. Imelda never saw Héctor again. 

Yet here he was, in Saint Cecilia. The street kid. The nameless musician. El bastardo. She smiled back at him. 

“Not much has changed,” she said. 

“Ay, for you maybe.” He puffed out his chest. “I have become a man, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Uh-huh,” Imelda said. “You still look like a boy to me.”

Héctor gasped, his mouth opening cartoonishly wide. He did have an undeniable youthfulness. It was in his eyes, which were still wide and bright, and in his wild, uncontrolled movements.

“You would not say such things if you saw this!” he said. 

“What?” 

He pulled his sombrero from his head. There were a few coins glittering inside. 

“My first salary, of course!” he said. “I am providing for myself, see Imelda?”

He seemed to realize what he’d done only a moment after saying her first name. His face turned red as the sunset behind him, and Imelda couldn't help but laugh. 

“Again,” she said. “So familiar!”

Héctor’s mouth flopped open and he tried to defend himself, but it only made him look like a confused fish. She laughed harder. Her breath came fast, and he put a hand on his chest, pretending to be offended. 

“Honestly,” he said, but he was smiling. Imelda smiled back, but then her stomach sank. 

Behind Héctor, she could see her Mamá walking through the street towards Señora Hernandez’s home. She looked like she'd swallowed a pepper. 

“Oh no,” Imelda said. 

“What?” Héctor looked more closely at her, his brow furrowing. “Did I do something else wrong?”

“No, no,” Imelda said. Her Mamá stomped closer, and she cringed. “I did.”

Mamá yanked the flour bag from Imelda’s hand, not deigning to acknowledge Hèctor. She grabbed her daughter by the wrist and dragged her away, just as she had when Imelda was a child.

* * *

Mamá did not have time to yell at her that day, not with Francisco coming over. Luckily, the dinner went well. By the end of the night, the family felt sure Rosita’s engagement was fast approaching.

Imelda walked to the market alone now. Her mother was busy, sewing new clothes for Rosita and preparing for a wedding she swore was coming. Rosita herself was fairly useless, spending most of her days in a lovesick tizzy. Imelda never wanted to find herself behaving like such a child.

She liked to take the long way through the market, always stopping in the Plaza. Héctor played there every day. His audience had not yet grown large, but some people at least looked up when they passed now. The town was beginning to grow used to him. Once, she even saw him speaking with another boy. It was Ernesto de la Cruz, the tailor’s wild son. It seemed Héctor was trying to teach him how to play guitar.

Imelda always waved as she walked by. Héctor had a wide, cheek-splitting grin, and she came to look forward to seeing it every day. Sometimes, she would stop and talk, just for a moment, just long enough to ask how his day was going or to speak about the weather. He was the picture of politeness. He always called her Señorita Martínez, even when no one else was near enough to hear them. Their conversations weren’t in the least bit noteworthy. From the outside, they may have even seemed boring, but Héctor’s eyes always glinted cheerfully, and Imelda always walked away from him in strangely high spirits. 

He had begun to play new songs. Love songs, all of them. Imelda gave him advice on the lyrics sometimes, when she saw him on the street, scribbling in his little notebook. But mostly she just heard them, in snippets, as she passed through Saint Cecilia. He sang of piercing eyes and a biting tongue. Of dark hair and of all the questions he would like to ask this woman. Sometimes, when she heard him in the Plaza, she felt that strange feeling in her chest grow larger than the whole town. 

But she didn’t allow herself to pause and listen anymore. She made sure to look busy, even if that meant she had to lap the Plaza a few times just to hear the whole song. After all, it wouldn’t do to be scolded by Mamá again.

* * *

Imelda was walking through Saint Cecilia on her way to visit sus primas when she heard the men.

There were three of them, standing around Héctor, heckling. Imelda recognized them — they were important boys, from good families. Héctor was trying to play over their voices, but he could only strum his guitar so hard. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could recognize their tone. They spoke like growling dogs. Héctor’s song faltered, and he stopped playing. Imelda caught one of the men mid-sentence.

“...be proud of you?” he said. “Su pequeño bastardo?”

The three men grinned, and one of them, a young blacksmith named Juan, curled his fingers into a fist. Héctor looked dazed, his eyes darting between the men’s faces. Imelda wanted to swear at him. Was he just going to stand there all day?

“Hey!” she said. She stomped up to the men, her finger rising to point dangerously at them. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Ay, señiorita—” Juan said.

Another man interrupted him before he could finish. It was the mayor’s son, Julio. His voice was jovial, but he was wearing the same idiotic sneer as the rest of the boys. 

“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” Julio said. “Just having fun, right Héctor?” 

Héctor was still frozen. Imelda shook her head, her hands clenching involuntarily into fists. 

“No,” she said. “You were being cruel.”

“Who cares?” said the third boy. Antonio was the butcher’s son and knew nothing but brute force. Julio shot him a stern look.

“Cruel is too strong a word, señorita,” he said. “We were just teasing.”

Imelda laughed, but it came out cold and bitter. She could see the resemblance on Julio’s face; he and his half-brother both had the same high cheekbones. Yet only Héctor had their father’s huge, pointed nose. She scowled.

“Listen to you!” she said. “You legitimate children, you are supposed to be respectable, yet un bastardo is a better man than you! I think you are the one who should be shunned.”

Julio looked shocked, and she wondered if anyone had ever addressed his relation to Héctor before. More likely than not, they had all been too afraid. The boys stared at her, their faces a varying degree of angry and confused. She puffed up her chest. At the moment, she would’ve liked to let out one of those throat-splitting gritos herself.

“Go home to your good families,” she said. They still stood there, clearly unsure as to whether or not they should defend themselves. Julio opened his mouth, but he seemed to decide it was better not to speak to such a wild woman. Imelda ignored them and made a shooing gesture.

“I said  _ adios.” _

The three men ambled away. Around them, everyone was speaking to each other. Some were whispering, but most didn’t bother with pretending. Imelda turned back towards Héctor.

The fool was gone. She looked around and saw him duck down a street on the other side of the Plaza. 

Imelda moved to follow him, then paused. She’d have to be smarter than this. She headed for a side street, the one she usually took on the walk to and from the plaza. Everyone would think she was headed home. Then she would loop around the block and catch Héctor as he ran back to Señora Hernandez’s.

She walked fast, her new soles clacking against the cobblestones. But when she turned the corner, there was no one there. The street was empty. She slowed down and listened carefully. As she passed the side streets, she gave each a quick glance-over. Then, next to her, down an alley, she heard a little noise. A noise that Imelda seldom made herself, but heard frequently in the hustle and bustle of her home. It was a choked-back sob.

She turned into the alleyway and found Héctor concealed behind a few scraggly bushes **.** He must have heard her coming, because he had moved to hide his face. Although he was not crying now, she could see that his eyes were wet. Imelda was immensely curious about this; she had never seen a grown man cry before. He looked up at her, and his goofy nose cast a shadow on his cheek. Imelda felt a deep pang in her chest, like hunger. 

“Héctor,” she said. Despite herself, her words sounded like a scolding. “You didn’t take those boys seriously, did you?”

He shook his head, but there was no mistaking the look in his eyes. She sighed.

“They are idiots,” she said. “They don’t understand a thing.”

“They were speaking of my mother,” Héctor said. “Calling her a whore.”

“So?” Imelda said. “Maybe she is. She still raised you well, didn’t she? Taught you not to listen to bullies with shriveled-up cocks?”

Héctor’s mouth fell open, and Imelda huffed.

“Grow up,” she said. She didn’t mention that she had never actually said the word out loud before, just heard her Papa say it once when he and her Tios were drinking tequila. Mamá had scolded them, but Imelda’s prima told her what it meant. 

Héctor shook his head, and Imelda felt herself growing angry.

“What?” she said. “You love your Mamá, right? So defend her! Fight for her! Don’t get weepy. What will she say when you tell her of this?”

“I won’t tell her,” he said. He closed his eyes. “Mi madre ha muerto.”

Imelda’s mouth shut mechanically. She’d never known anyone who had died before, not really. Everyone in her family took good care of each other, and so they lived long lives. Héctor’s mother must have spent her whole life in the slums, overworked and underfed. It was a wonder she lasted so long.

She sat, staring, for another moment. And then Héctor began to cry.

His shoulders shook. His face reddened. She’d thought sobbing would make a man look younger, like a baby, but somehow it made Héctor seem infinitely older. For the first time, she sensed how much his life weighed on him.

She didn’t know what to do, so she pushed her way into the bushes and kneeled. Their knees pressed together, and she shifted so they sat side by side. She had never been this close to a man before, and the two of them were touching from ankle to shoulder. She put her arm around him and squeezed, tightly, like her Mamá did to her. Héctor’s head fell onto her shoulder, and she turned slightly to face him. She had never seen him like this, from above. He had such clear, even skin. She could feel each of his breaths as they left him.

Imelda began to sing. Slowly, her voice low so she wouldn’t be heard from the street. She sang an old lullaby that her mother had taught her. It suited her range well, and it filled the space between them better than conversation, better than silence.  

Héctor calmed. She finished singing, and his body stilled. But he didn’t pull away, and neither did Imelda. Slowly, Héctor put his hand on her knee. He looked her in the eye, their faces mere inches from each other, and Imelda nodded. She knew he was saying thank you.

Then someone screeched, and Imelda’s head shot up.

It was Señora Hernandez.

“ _ Héctor!”  _ she said. Her eyes were scandalized, her hands clutching at her cross necklace. “Y Imelda!”

“No, no,” Héctor said. He stood up quickly, and leaves stuck in his messy hair. “It isn’t what you think, it’s—”

“Imelda?” she said. Imelda raised her face and met Señora Hernandez’s gaze. She kept her mouth screwed into a tight line. She would not feel ashamed.

“She was just being kind,” Héctor said. “Just being kind.”

At this, Señora Hernandez looked doubtful, and Imelda herself wished he’d chosen his words more carefully. There were a lot of things that Imelda was known for, but being kind was not one of them.

“Get up,” Señora Hernandez said. Imelda stood and wiped the dust from her skirts. Inside, her stomach was sinking. Despite Héctor’s posturing, she knew exactly what the gossipy woman thought, and she was sure it was too late to do anything about it. Any excuse she made would just make her look even guiltier. She should force herself to cry, to make some heartfelt plea for Señora Hernandez’s mercy, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel bad for what she had done. She couldn’t even pretend.

“You need to go home and tell your Mamá,” Señora Hernandez said. “Before I do. And you—” She turned to Héctor. “If I hear of you doing anything like this again, I will kick you out, rent or no rent. Do you understand me? Imelda is a good girl. She doesn’t need you… soiling her.”

Imelda wanted to retort, but she saw Héctor shake his head. His eyes were glued on the floor. 

Señora Hernandez leaned back on her heels. Despite her expression of righteous anger, she had a mischievous tilt to her mouth. Imelda knew she was thinking of how best to spread the news. She wanted to take off her shoe and slap Señora Hernandez with it, but she knew it would only make the rumors worse.

So she just left. She walked home, her feet dragging in the dust, her mind heavy with the weight of what she had to do. She could already hear her Mamá’s lecture. 

* * *

But her mother didn’t yell. She listened quietly as Imelda told the story, her face growing paler and paler. Imelda tried to keep her voice firm and authoritative, but she felt it crack when she said that Héctor had put his hand on her knee. The rest, she could explain away as merely comforting a poor man. But that— well, that had been for her.

She finished her story, and Mamá sat for a moment. She looked down at her hands.

“You must never see him again,” she said.

“What?” Imelda shook her head, her nose curling in distaste. “Mamá, it was only a misunderstanding. Héctor would never compromise me.”

“He already did.” Mamá looked at Imelda now, her eyes searching the girl’s face. Imelda looked away, and Mamá continued. “Mija, do you understand? You may never recover from this. Crouching in a bush, with a bastard? A musician with no family and no prospects?”

“I wasn’t doing anything!”

“It doesn’t matter. Señora Hernandez doesn’t know that, and she will tell everyone what she saw. We must do everything we can to remedy this scandal, or a respectable man may never speak to you again.”

“If a man doesn’t want to speak to me, then that is his loss,” Imelda said. “I was only being kind to Héctor.”

Again, Imelda regretted the word choice. She could tell that Mamá did not believe her.

“Please, mija,” she said. “You must understand. If you continue to see him like this, it will ruin more than you. Rosita has finally announced her engagement to Francisco, but do you think he will want her with an improper family? Francisco could give Rosita a good life, a happy one. And what of Felipe and Óscar? They deserve good prospects too. They will not have them with such a loose sister.”

Imelda looked down at her lap. Mamá continued.

“You have responsibilities beyond yourself,” she said. “It is time to think of the family.”

Imelda shook her head. 

“He doesn't have a family,” she said. She could feel her eyes welling with tears, and  _ God,  _ she was stupid. She blinked them away. “Héctor doesn't have anyone, and it’s not his fault. Shouldn't he be allowed to have someone?”

“Yes.” Her Mamá put her warm, weathered hand on Imelda’s cheek. “But that someone is not you, Imelda.”

“But—”

“It’s how it has to be,” Mamá said. She shook her head. “Lo siento.”

Imelda was surprised when she began to weep. Once it started, she could not stop it, and wave after wave of sobs crashed over her. Her Mamá pulled her close to her chest, but Imelda could not feel the embrace. She just keep thinking of Héctor in her arms, his hand burning like a brand against her thigh. She would give anything to go back, to crawl back into that bush and sit in the silence.

But her Mamá was right. She was an unmarried woman, and she could not be seen cuddling up to a single man. She would be lucky if she had not already ruined everything.

She could not see him anymore.

* * *

The next day, Imelda went looking for Héctor in the market. She had to speak to him, to tell him they must go their separate ways. She had a whole speech planned in her head. It was tough, but fair, and friendly. As she walked towards the Plaza, her head buzzed. She was so anxious to see him, she couldn’t tell if the pit in her stomach was forming from excitement or fear. She turned the corner, but for the first time since he began playing in Saint Cecilia, he was not there. Another mariachi band had taken his coveted spot.

She didn’t see him there the following day either. Nor was he there the next day, or the next. In fact, it was almost two weeks before she saw him playing again. He stood off to the side of the plaza, singing out to the mostly empty booths. Imelda thought he seemed smaller somehow. His shoulders were slumped. His dancing was quieter, more contained. He’d even stopped playing his love songs.

She knew she couldn’t approach him in the middle of everyone, but she hoped to signal to him, to let him know she wished to meet. But Héctor wouldn’t even meet her eye when she passed him. In fact, he looked away, his gaze focusing on the ground, his fingers hitting the wrong string on his guitar. It made Imelda furious, and she found herself walking back in the same direction. She wanted to force him to acknowledge her. He didn’t even look up.

Over the next few days, Imelda began to walk through the plaza more and more. All she wanted was to catch him off guard, to force him to meet her gaze. She knew she could not be with him, but thinking he didn't want her — it made her want to scream. Which she did, one morning, while she was feeding the chickens. It felt good, but it did nothing to calm her. She could feel her anger building and building, an ocean so deep and dark she was afraid to look too closely at it. She was growing surly, her frowns coming easier. She hadn’t sung since that day in the alley, and her voice felt oddly foreign. She was afraid of the silence she kept finding herself in.

So she made a plan. That night, she would sneak out of the room she shared with Rosita and climb out the kitchen window. Her Mamá was sure to hear any door closing, but she always left the windows open on hot nights like this one. Imelda would leave the house, walk to Señora Hernandez’s, and go to Héctor’s window. Then she would demand answers. 

* * *

“Héctor!” Imelda whispered. She knocked again on his windowpane. “ _ Héctor!” _

She heard a rustling in the room. Footsteps.

The window swung open.

“Imelda?” Héctor said. His eyes were red and lined with sleep. She looked down and saw that he was barefoot, and somehow, that sight alone was enough to calm her. She felt her anger leaking out her ears and tried in vain to puff out her chest.

“Hola, Héctor,” she said. “I need to speak with you.”

“I—” he paused, and his voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “You have to get out of here, before you wake Señora Hernandez. If she sees you here, she’ll tell the whole town.”

“I’m not leaving until we talk,” Imelda said. Héctor seemed to deflate, and he shook his head.

“You don't want to talk to me,” he said. She just crossed her arms.

A second passed, and Imelda began to tap her foot. Finally, Héctor sighed.

“Alright,” he said. “Just— give me a second. And step back.”

Imelda moved back, and he did his best to climb out the window. His movements were messy, his skinny limbs like a spider’s legs. When he finally got his body through the opening, he fell in a heap to the ground. Imelda did not offer him a hand up, and the two began walking away from the boarding house. 

“So,” Héctor said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “What was so important?”

Imelda looked down at the ground, at his bare feet collecting dew. Suddenly, this all felt very stupid. Her speech had long since faded from her mind, and she had no idea what to say to him. 

The two kept walking through the warm night. Héctor seemed to know that she needed more time to say what she needed to say, and he didn't ask again. There was a field of wheat behind Señor Hernandez’s home, and they disappeared down its paths. The wheat scratched at Imelda’s legs but felt soft against her shoulders. As they walked, her pinky finger grazed Héctor’s. He leaned deliberately away from her.

“You have been ignoring me,” Imelda said. She shook her head. “Pretending I don't exist.”

“I have not,” he said. Imelda stopped in her tracks and gave him a withering look. He groaned. “Okay, I have. Lo siento, but I am only doing what is right for you.”

“What’s right for me?” Imelda said. She rolled her eyes and began walking again. “Because an idiot like you knows what's right for anybody. You hardly know what's right for yourself.”

“I know you can’t be seen with me,” he said. He followed a half-step behind her. “I have no money, no home. Not even a name. What will people think of you, talking to me? How could I ever give you anything like the life you deserve?”

“Who said anything about any of that?” Imelda asked. “We aren't talking about getting married.”

Now Héctor rose an eyebrow at her. 

“Really?” he said. He looked away from her. “Imelda, you are a bold woman. You ignore what everyone else is thinking and go with your gut. But if we continue to speak, people will think we’re getting married, or worse. You’ll be _soiled._ ”

Héctor kicked at the dirt with his bare feet. It rolled in clumps down the path. Imelda knew he was right, but the words still rested uneasily in her churning stomach. 

“Besides,” he said. “I cannot be with you anymore, knowing…”

“What?” Imelda said. She stopped walking and reached out, resting a hand on his arm. Her breath hitched as she realized what she’d done. He stood stick-still, his eyes fixed on her fingers. When he spoke, it was so quiet she barely heard him.

“Knowing I cannot truly be with you,” Héctor said. 

Imelda shook her head. He was a melodramatic boy, but he was right. She didn't know why she was here, didn't know why she just kept pushing the issue. She had promised her Mamá that she would not ruin her prospects, that she would not be a single woman compromising herself for a man. Yet she and Héctor — she was not ready to let him go. The words spilled out her mouth before she could even think them.

“I love you,” she said. As she said it, she realized it was true. “I don't care about anything else.”

Héctor stared at her, his mouth open, and then gathered himself. His next words seemed to come with great effort. 

“You might not care today,” he said. “But you will.”

“I love you,” Imelda said. Saying it again made her feel good, giddy. She could sense the energy buzzing in her limbs. She was ready to fight with Héctor, to fight  _ for  _ Héctor. “Do you love me?”

He didn't reply. Imelda looked at him, her gaze unflinching. He couldn't meet her eyes. 

“Héctor,” she said. She put a hand on his cheek, and his eyes grew wet. She thought it made him look even sweeter. Her heart was warm, so warm she felt it might actually be glowing like a coal. He began to cry, and she wiped a tear away with her thumb. 

“Do you love me?” she asked again. He looked up at her.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

The first thing Imelda felt was triumph; she was right. He loved her. She focused on his face, on the unreadable light in his dark eyes. She pulled her hand away from his cheek. The air between them felt like fire. 

And then she kissed him.  

Or he kissed her, maybe. They would argue about it later; the point was, they were kissing. Imelda had never kissed a boy before, and it felt  _ good.  _ He was a lot taller than her, so she had to stand on her toes just to reach him. His lips were a little chapped, but they moved smoothly against her own. She pressed herself closer, her arms wrapping around his neck. His nose pressed sharply into her cheek, and she stifled a laugh.  

They pulled away.

“I knew it,” Imelda said. Héctor grinned sheepishly back at her and blew his long hair away from his eyes. 

“I love you,” he said again, and there was wonder in his voice now. Imelda wanted to kiss again, but he ducked his head. 

“What?” she said.

“Everything I said before is still true,” he said. “I have nothing to offer you.”

“Who cares?” Imelda said. 

Héctor shook his head. “Imelda, if we married, our family would not even have a name.”

“Names,” Imelda scoffed. There was a happiness she had never felt before expanding in her chest, and she would not allow something silly as this to squash it. “Your asshole father didn't give you his name, and now you are a great musician. He lives to regret his choice.”

“I’m not a great musician,” Héctor said. “I can't even impress the Plaza.”

“Pah. They are all impressed, they only pretend not to be. You are great.”

“You really think so?”

“I don't lie,” Imelda said. “And I wouldn’t listen to you if you were terrible. I like your music.”

Héctor stared at her, and she ducked her head, suddenly unprepared for the awe in his eyes.

“The songs are about you, you know,” he said. And Imelda did know, although she’d never allowed herself to think it. She tugged lightly at his ragged tie, avoiding the question.

“You don't need your father,” she said. “You are more than him. You’re a great musician, and a great musician needs a name. So you should pick one. Anything, as long as it’s yours.”

“Well…” Héctor trailed off. He still looked disbelieving. “I sort of have one in mind already.”

Imelda waited. Héctor held his breath. 

“Come on,” she said. “Out with it.”

“Rivera,” Héctor said. 

“Rivera,” Imelda replied. She tilted her head, eying the man. His goofy mop of hair, his sharp cheekbones. That fucking nose. “Héctor Rivera.”

Héctor shrugged and waited for her face to change. Imelda smiled.

“Héctor y Imelda Rivera,” she said. “I would like to meet those people, I think.”

Héctor held her gaze. 

“Really?”  

She nodded, and he laughed, short and surprised. For a moment, they stared at each other, beaming. Then Héctor reached for her, his arms wrapping around her waist, and he lifted her off the ground. The two spun and spun in the dark of the field, Héctor’s face buried in the crook of her neck, Imelda’s skirts twirling around them. He set her down, and she touched her head, dizzy. 

“Ay, mi amor,” he said. His brow furrowed. “Are you alright?”

She laughed again. She had never felt more overwhelmed. Her Mamá was sure to be furious, although she supposed a poorly married daughter would still be better than a ruined single one. She couldn’t imagine what her sister would say, what her brothers would do. 

Héctor was still watching her, and there was such warmth in his eyes. She could feel something inside her melting like candle wax.

She took a deep breath and kissed him again, just to make her feelings clear. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! It's been a long time since I published a fanfic, but this story just came so easily. I wrote it in under a day, which is rare for me. I wanted to explore why Héctor has no blood relatives in the Land of the Dead, and I also wanted to understand why Imelda not only kept Héctor's last name but also used it as the name of her business. I figured it had to mean something to her beyond him, otherwise she might not have held onto it so tightly.
> 
> I'm considering adding two more chapters to this, spanning the rest of their relationship, so let me know what you think!


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